


Authentic

by hollycomb



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sulu takes Chekov to Japan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authentic

Chekov keeps saying that he wants to go to Japan and Sulu keeps asking what that has to do with him. He hasn't been since he was nine years old, when his grandmother died. Still, Sulu knows what Chekov means. Sulu speaks tourist Japanese; he can ask where bathrooms are. He knows a little bit about the culture and how to pick out a good restaurant. He knows why Chekov keeps telling him that he wants to visit Japan: because he wants Sulu to go with him, to spend time with him once they're back on Earth for their two month break between missions. Sulu knows this, but he still gives Chekov a hard time, because nobody ever gives Chekov a hard time, he's too cute and people like him too much, and Sulu has this theory that Chekov likes him best because Sulu doesn't treat him the way everyone else does, as if he's struggling not to pinch his cheeks. Even though, usually, he kind of is.

"Maybe I want to go to Russia," Sulu says one day at lunch. Chekov goes supernova, beaming and pressing his chest to the table as he leans toward Sulu.

"You do?" he says. Sulu smirks.

"Not really," he says, and his heart kind of breaks when Chekov wilts, so he says, "But, okay. If you want, we could go to Japan. Me and you, when we get back."

Chekov smiles, more cautiously this time. "Okay, Hikaru," he says. "Okay. You will show me authentic places?"

"Authentic, sure. You know I'm American, right?"

"Yes, Hikaru, I know this, but please. I want to see this place."

Sulu is pretty sure that Chekov would be really annoying if he wasn't so unbelievably adorable. Sometimes Sulu lies awake at night and just thinks about him, like a teenage girl with a crush. It's horrifying, really. If only Chekov knew. He has this hero worship thing going on, and Sulu doesn't want to disappoint him. So he acts like a hero, kind of cold, smiling in a condescending way, never letting his guard down. It's what Chekov wants. He doesn't want Sulu to cuddle up to him and kiss him sweetly and tell him he's the first thing Sulu thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks of when he goes to sleep. Well, who the hell would want that.

*

So they go to Japan. It's October, kind of between seasons in Tokyo. Sulu gets a room at the best hotel in the city, walks Chekov through the red light district and takes him for a sushi breakfast at the fish market. It's strange to be with Chekov outside of work, off of the ship. He wears dorky sweaters and seems kind of nervous when he's not confidently punching numbers into a console. When Sulu tells him he can eat his nigiri with his fingers Chekov gives him a suspicious look, as if he thinks Sulu is tricking him.

And apparently Chekov really likes cheesy television, because he can't get enough of the Japanese morning news programs, and even though he doesn't speak a word of the language he smiles at the newscasters like they're old friends. Sulu keeps waking up to the glow of the muted television, Chekov over in his bed and grinning at the screen, glassy-eyed.

"Are you having fun?" Sulu asks when they're on the seventh floor of a depaato, eating noodles and drinking Sapporo Classic.

"Yes," Chekov says, but Sulu hears something guarded in it. He kicks Chekov's ankle under the table.

"So what do you want to do today?" he asks, and that question totally shouldn't feel dirty, and Chekov totally shouldn't blush in response.

"I was thinking, Hikaru, about the authentic experience of the city."

"Yeah, you're getting it."

"Yes, okay, but how about these things, I have read about them, they are hot springs baths?"

"Oh." Sulu grins down at his noodles. "You mean, like, super old-fashioned? That's tourist stuff."

"Yes, Hikaru, but we are tourists."

Chekov can't seem to speak without using Sulu's name. Sulu doesn't mind.

"Fine, we can go to a ryokan," Sulu says. "Uh, it's like a hot spring resort," he explains when Chekov looks at him with confusion. "But the ones in Tokyo are lame. We'll go to a good one, out in the country."

"Yes, out in the country," Chekov says, giving Sulu a starry-eyed look that makes him forget where he is for a minute.

*

They go all the way up to Hokkaido, where it's already started to get cold. Sulu's grandparents lived in Nayoro until they died, and that's where they go, to a hot springs inn that he can't believe is still operational. It's authentic, up in the hills and far away from everything, not very crowded because the snow hasn't come yet. They arrive in Nayoro after dark, by train, because the ryokan hasn't gotten anywhere near allowing teleportation. It would be inauthentic. Chekov falls asleep against Sulu's shoulder on the train, and when Sulu shakes him awake Chekov blinks up at him in a way that, for a moment, makes Sulu think that Chekov wants nothing more than the horrid coddling treatment Sulu has been longing to give him. But then Chekov sits up and his face goes red and he asks if they're there yet.

The ryokan is clean and well-kept, pretty and quiet: authentic. Sulu gets a Japanese-style room and they are provided with only one futon, but they'll cross that bridge when they come to it. Sulu drinks from a bottle of sake he brought along and changes into a yukata, then puts Chekov in one, which is hilarious, and adorable, and probably far too appealing, but he can't stop taking pictures with his PADD while Chekov grins obliviously.

"Yes, this is what I was imagining," Chekov says, pulling the sash tighter around his waist. "Very authentic."

"Right," Sulu says, laughing as he takes another picture. "You totally look like a samurai."

"Hikaru," Chekov says, scoldingly, because he knows Sulu is making fun of him. Chekov fake punches him, and it seems like an excuse to touch him, but whatever, Sulu is drunk.

"When will we go to the hot springs?" Chekov asks, tugging on Sulu's arm.

"I think we have time before dinner is served," Sulu says. "You know. An authentic dinner. Raw tofu and stuff. Fermented soy beans."

"Yes, wonderful!" Chekov is practically bouncing. "So the hot springs, how do we get there?"

Sulu takes him down to the hot spring, remembering how his grandmother used to rant that she didn't think they should have ever gone unisex, that some things were sacred no matter how progressive society got. Sulu hopes there won't be any gorgeous women bathing at the moment -- what a stupid thing to hope -- and is relieved when the hot spring is completely empty, the dinner hour so close that most guests are dressing in preparation. The sun is gone, the deep blue of the sky glowing when they come out to the showering area.

"Okay," Sulu says, feeling hazy from all the sake, and glad for it. "You know. You have to undress."

"Yes, of course I know this!" Chekov's face is red, or maybe it's the light from the lanterns. Which are meant to be authentic.

"Well, then." Sulu turns his back and drops his yukata, his own face burning. He hasn't done this since he was a kid, but he remembers the rules. Wash up first. Only the tiniest towels available to cover your privates -- he sees them stacked on a cabinet near the outdoor showers. The night air is cold and sharp, and he hurries to wash his skin, not daring to turn and peek at Chekov's progress. He's thought about Chekov's skin. It's so smooth, like a lost art form, some antiquity. But whatever, bathing in a hot spring is not about sex. He's authentically Japanese enough to know that.

"Hikaru?" Chekov says, suddenly right at Sulu's shoulder, and Sulu actually jumps a little.

"What?" he asks, pretending he's still washing.

"Can I get in now?"

"Of course you can. Go!"

Sulu turns just in time to barely glimpse Chekov's pale little ass before he slips into the hot water, slowly, and gasping, and oh, man. Maybe Sulu came here knowing what would happen. But no, no, nothing is happening. Chekov is just an enthusiastic tourist. Sulu just would have bitch-slapped anyone but Chekov who asked to be shown the authentic Japan. He climbs into the hot spring beside Chekov as if it's nothing, because it is: nothing. It's a pretty, cool night, it's some hot, pure water, and it's a sighing, sweet-faced Russian who is staring at him like he's waiting to hear a speech. Nothing at all.

"Feels so good," Chekov says, and Sulu almost groans, because what the fuck, like he needs that right now.

"Yeah," he says. "Here." Somehow he has a washcloth in his hand, he must have carried it from the bathing station, can't remember that far back, but he drapes it over Chekov's head like a joke, because he's always making jokes about this, the thing between them, ha ha. Chekov grins at him, and Sulu is going to look away, but then he doesn't. Chekov with his curls and that white cloth flopped over them like a little hat: it's too much. He shouldn't have come, but he can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else, ever, no matter what happens next.

"Hikaru," Chekov says, kindly, like he wants to help him through this. Sulu scoffs.

"What? You look ridiculous."

Chekov starts to take the cloth from his head, but Sulu reaches up and holds it there, shaking his head.

"I mean," Sulu says. "Not ridiculous. I don't know what I mean."

"Hikaru." Chekov smiles like he's the wisened one here, and that's annoying.

"Stop saying that."

"What should I stop saying? Your name?"

"Yeah."

"Why, Hika-- I mean, why?"

"Because." Sulu shakes his head. The water is so hot, he's already sweating, and so is Chekov. His curls are going dark under the cloth Sulu has laid across them like an offering. An offering? Okay, he's drunk, and this is his best friend, whatever hero worship is involved.

"Because," Sulu says again, but there's still no readily available explanation. "I don't know. Chekov. Pavel."

"Yes?"

"I just."

"Yes, Hikaru?"

Chekov is leaning close, one corner of the cloth flopping hilariously over his forehead. All Sulu can smell is clean water and mountain air and snow, too, somewhere far off, and all he can see is the pale, perfect landscape of Chekov's skin.

"I," Sulu says, trying as hard as he can. "I don't know what to do with you," he says, in the interest of full disclosure.

"Oh!" Chekov says, as if this is a mathematical equation he can easily solve. "Here."

He kisses Sulu, very sweetly and chastely, as if he's studied hot springs customs, as if he knows it would be inauthentic to do anything more. Sulu stares at him for awhile, then leans in to lick completely inappropriately across his bottom lip. The last of the sun disappears, and there are stars up there, the stars he and Chekov have wound their way past, the stars they'll know by heart before too long.

"We should go eat," Sulu says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Chekov nods, and suddenly Sulu feels like such a child, like he's been hero worshiping Chekov, who saved him, for so long, and he never even knew it.

*

They have an approximately thirty-four course dinner, everything tiny and beautiful. They sit across from each other, legs folded, laughing and drinking more sake than is really authentic or appropriate. Sulu feels like he's found some secret dwelling of the gods, or maybe he's just had way too much to drink, but the food is so carefully presented and Chekov is so beautiful and forgiving, smiling at him as if he's doing everything right.

When they get back to the room Sulu isn't nervous or uncertain anymore, and he takes his yukata off and climbs into the futon like it's in the script. Chekov is a pale tower in the moonlight, and Sulu watches his identical yukata drop to the tatami mat floor.

"Can I get in?" Chekov asks, and Sulu actually laughs, because at this point, what the hell.

"Yeah," he says, holding his arms out when he sees Chekov's shoulders drop. "Come here. Please. Pavel."

And then Chekov is so quickly in Sulu's arms, pouring himself down like he belongs there, and he does, Sulu can feel it, the way Chekov shudders against him as if it's almost too much. His skin is the missing thing that Sulu has sought forever, and his mouth is better than anything Sulu has ever tasted.

"Hikaru," Chekov says, breathing it down onto Sulu's lips like a prayer. Sulu nods furiously.

"Never stop saying my name," he begs, and Chekov says it again and again, the pitch and tone changing each time, depending on where and how Sulu touches him.

They come in each other's fumbling hands like eager teenagers, because Chekov is an eager teenager, and what else is Sulu supposed to do? He's in love, fine, it's proven, and it's authentic, something he's never known before. Chekov is limp with happiness, moaning slightly as he settles onto Sulu in the aftermath. He goes still, and his breathing slows, his head tucked under Sulu's chin.

"Pavel," Sulu whispers into the quiet dark of the room, just checking. Nothing happens. Chekov is dead asleep against him, worn out and still so warm from the hot spring.

"Okay, now," Sulu says, when he's confident that Chekov is asleep. "Just stay right there." He pets Chekov's hair and turns to the window, which is open to the cold breeze. "Just don't ever go," Sulu says, because he's already starting to worry about how much he's going to need this from now on.

But Chekov isn't going anywhere, and Sulu shuts his eyes. They're going to be together on the Enterprise for the rest of their lives. They're going to turn down promotions to keep their asses in the same seats they fell into by chance when they met, barely a year ago. It will never stop being funny to Sulu, who convinced himself at fifteen that he didn't believe in this kind of stuff. Whatever this kind of stuff is. Easy acceptance, a doe-eyed companion who also happens to be a fucking genius, and those eyes -- it's just improbable. Inauthentic, even. Sulu is willing to accept that, if he can live like a blissed-out tourist under Chekov's gaze forever. It's willing suspension of disbelief. It's what anyone would do.


End file.
